


Sunflower

by missroserose



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Mild Instagram Stalking, Pining, Pop music, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: Steve's college roommate, Billy Hargrove, is the worst and best first roommate Steve could've asked for.





	Sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Harringrove Week of Love! This was inspired by [eternalgoldfish](https://eternalgoldfish.tumblr.com)'s untitled [roommate AU](https://eternalgoldfish.tumblr.com/post/182661055405/having-a-roommate-is-probably-the-worst-experience). Hope you don't mind, love, but I just couldn't leave it there...

The first time, it’s not his fault. Their clothes are constantly getting mixed up on the floor. He hadn’t realized they were Billy’s sweats. Hell—he suppresses a strangely hysterical giggle—he doesn’t even have to worry about washing off the come stains.

He does have to worry about Billy. Standing behind him, hand wrapped around Steve’s still-hard cock. Holding Steve up as he pants, regains his breath. Feels the flush that’s crept up his chest, his neck, heated his skin.

Steve didn’t know he swung this way. Didn’t realize either of them did.

But whatever. It’s just a hand.

A hand, and a voice. A drunk voice. Murmuring filthy promises in his ear in a tone that would make Satan himself part his lips.

Steve’s head is lolling back on Billy’s shoulder, like a sunflower too heavy for its stalk. In a way he’s abruptly aware is baring his throat. And Billy’s behind him, so it’s not quite submission, but it’s close.

“Pretty boy,” that voice says in his ear, soothing, enticing. “Always knew you’d be so pretty. Coming apart in my arms like that.” It’s almost a croon, sinful, delicious. “Wearing my clothes. How fucking gorgeous are you going to look wearing my spunk? Pretty pearl necklace for a pretty pretty boy…”

Steve shivers. No. This has to stop now. He pulls away with an effort, turns. “Billy, look. I’m sorry. I won’t wear your clothes again.”

Billy’s grin is drunk, lazy, but not sloppy. “You sure ‘bout that? ‘Cause you look _great_.” He takes a surprisingly steady step forward, hooks his fingers into the waistband of the sweats. Pulls Steve closer. “Make me want to do all kinds of things to you—”

Steve lays a hand on Billy’s chest. “It’s not like that, okay? I just…this was a one-time thing.”

A pause, as this sinks in to Billy’s thick skull. Steve watches his expression change. “Oh. I get it. _No homo_ , right? Like, you’ll come all over my hand, but you’re not queer?” Billy makes a disgusted noise in his throat, pushes Steve away. “Whatever, asshole.”

“No, it’s not like—” Steve trails off as Billy leaves, slams the door. “Fuck.”

*

Three days of Billy being gone. Billy’s Instagram feed is full of pictures of parties. Beer pong, glow paint, girls. Girls with glowing neon necklaces and stripes of UV reactive paint across their cleavage. Girls with tequila running down their bellies. Girls in wet t-shirts, draped over Billy’s beer-drenched shoulders.

Steve considers reporting a TOS violation, but closes the app instead, determined to study. Falls asleep at his laptop. Wakes when a balled-up t-shirt hits him in the back of the head.

“Hey roomie, it’s time to work out.”

Steve silently curses his past self who thought it was a good idea to be workout buddies with his roommate. His ridiculously ripped, ridiculously hot, ridiculously _ridiculous_ roommate. But he grunts and gets up, grateful, at least, that it was a clean t-shirt.

He should know. He did all of Billy’s laundry for him.

*

The second time, it’s maybe his fault. It’s hard to wrap your lips around a guy’s cock without having some say in the matter.

Then again, he’s really only returning the favor. So it’s kind of Billy’s fault still.

Billy’s thick. Girthy. But Steve’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and he sucks Billy down like he’s apologizing, like he’s promising _never again, baby, I’ll never hurt you like that ever_. 

Billy’s fucking into it. Any lingering doubts Steve had about his roommate’s sexuality are shoved aside—Billy’s fingers are in his hair, tight, curses and praise spilling from his lips as he leans back against his desk. “Shit, babe, you feel so fucking good,” he’s muttering, and if he didn’t have Billy’s cock in his mouth Steve would grit his teeth, wondering how many people he’s said exactly that to in the past. How many stock phrases of encouragement he keeps in his toolbox, keyed to this sensation or that movement. But it’s whatever. Whatever it takes to get him off. To give him the best head of his life.

Steve kind of hates that he’s so determined to feed his roommate’s ego, but there it is. 

He’s always been a bit _competitive_.

So he slides his tongue along the shaft, lets his lips stretch, makes little slurping sounds, getting really enthusiastic—and Billy’s getting louder, more insistent, and Steve’s swirling his tongue underneath the head now, pumping Billy with one hand, spit-slick and obscene, feels Billy’s cock pulse as fingers tighten in his hair, and hot jizz is flooding his throat and he’s swallowing him down without complaint.

Billy’s still gasping when Steve pulls back, hollowing his cheeks until he comes off with a satisfied _pop_. 

“God, I love your mouth,” Billy says, eyes heavy-lidded as they take in Steve. And because he apparently doesn’t know when to quit, he tugs Steve up by the hair, lets go, only to use his thumb to wipe away an errant drop of something unmentionable from the corner of Steve’s mouth. “How did I not know you could do that?”

Steve grins, wide. “Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

“Fuck. I feel like I could bench press 400 pounds. Or run a mile. Or get shitfaced and dance all night.” Steve feels warm at the praise, but then Billy’s holding his phone up, selfie-camera showing their faces in the desklamp byglow. “C’mon. Start-of-the-evening photo. Then we go out and get shitfaced. Go dancing.”

“Dude, your dick is still out.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a face picture, nobody will know.” Billy waggles his eyebrows. “Though maybe they’ll guess…”

And Steve suddenly goes cold. Pushes the camera away. “No, dude. I don’t want to be on your trophy wall. And I don’t want to go out and get drunk either. I’ve got class tomorrow.”

“So what?” Billy sets the phone down, tucks himself away, picks a shirt up off the (once again covered) floor. “We get drunk, we study. We’ve done it before.” Steve just looks at him; he raises his eyebrows, opens his hands. “What, do you want me to _ask you out_? Like we’re in middle school?”

Steve just sighs and turns away, ignores the painful wobbling in his chest. “Life isn’t an endless party, Hargrove. Some of us have more important shit to do than work out and drink.” And if he stays, Billy’s going to leave, so Steve pulls on his shoes, a sweater, picks up his backpack and keys. “I’m going to the library. I’ll see you later.”

Out of the corner of his eye, before the door closes behind him, he sees Billy’s face, and he feels a wash of regret in his belly—he’d swear to god his asshole roommate looks hurt. But then the door closes, and Steve shakes his head, certain he’s imagining things.

*

The third time definitely isn’t his fault.

Steve can’t control the fact that he occasionally has nightmares, even years after anything creepy has happened to him. Even after the dream has faded, the images still haunt him—his hometown overgrown by vines and leaves, air thick with spores, friends speared by branches or torn apart by monsters. He lies on his bed in the dark, body curled in on itself toward the wall, listening to Billy’s snores. Sobs uncontrollably, does his best to swallow the sounds, feels grateful that he’s never been the type for dramatic screams in the middle of the night.

As the worst of the storm passes, he realizes that he hasn’t heard Billy snore in a while. Debates calling out his roommate’s name, but doesn’t trust his voice to stay steady. Then he’s startled by the sensation of his mattress shifting, dipping under the weight of Billy’s not-inconsiderable frame.

“Hey, man. It’s okay.” Billy’s voice, quiet in his ear; one thick, strong arm circles around his waist, pulls him close. “It’s just a bad dream.” 

Somehow that only makes his body shudder, only brings forth a fresh burst of tears, hot shame spilling out onto Steve’s cheeks. Billy makes a soothing hum, strokes his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“It’s okay if you’re homesick,” the voice continues; it’s quiet and certain the way it is when he’s whispering filth into Steve’s ear, but different. Talking just to talk, to be present here in the dark, a rope Steve can cling to to pull out of his own head. “I get homesick sometimes, and I don’t even like my home. Plus it’s, like, a couple hours away. You’re way further from home than I’ve ever been…”

Eventually, Steve quiets, breaths smoothing out, body relaxing. Billy still holds him close, kisses the back of his head, the curve of his ear. Steve shivers, presses back into Billy’s frame, and admits, just for a moment, just to himself, how nice it is to feel cared for.

*

The fourth time…might be Steve’s fault. A little.

It’s Billy’s birthday, and Steve wants to surprise him with something nice. Hits on the perfect idea—a turntable. Reaches into his own birthday-money savings to get a nice one, spends an entire fucking day on the Internet figuring out how to set the damn thing up, nabs some vintage records. The Scorpions. Pink Floyd. Def Leppard. The Who. And some newer stuff, too—Billy might be the worst roommate, but he’s got decent taste in music.

Billy is out late that night, and Steve _might_ be obsessively refreshing Instagram to see if he’s staying the night with some new squeeze. But only because, if so, he can stop pretending to work on this History paper and go to bed. Definitely not because he’s hoping Billy will come home. After all, there’s no reason he can’t give him his present tomorrow—

The sound of the key in the lock has him dashing across the room. And just as the door opens, Steve’s got the needle dropping.

Billy comes in, and he’s blinking, nonplussed, as if a Post Malone and Swae Lee collaboration is something brand new and foreign. Steve smiles, bopping his head along. “Hey, roomie. Happy birthday.”

Billy still looks confused. “I thought you hated my music?”

“Some of it doesn’t suck.” Steve motions to the setup, on the shelf over Billy’s desk. The turntable, the receiver, the slightly battered records sitting next to the speakers. “I got you a new player. Hope you don’t mind.”

His roommate moves over to his side of the room, seems hypnotized by the spinning record. “This is for me?”

“And the records.” Steve’s about bursting. “Found some good deals at a thrift shop.” Billy’s still quiet, and Steve is starting to worry. “Hargrove? Everything all right?”

Billy turns, and Steve’s never seen this expression on his face before. Something strangely cracked down the middle, jagged but soft. “You did this for me?”

Steve laughs a little, walks over to him, bumps his hips into Billy’s. Takes his hands. “I don’t see any other birthday boys around. C’mon.” And he tugs Billy forward, slides his arms around Billy’s neck, swivels his hips meaningfully.

And Billy, who can dance because of course he can, catches on, puts his hands on Steve’s hips, pulls him even closer. There’s a moment of confusion as they fight over who leads, but Billy slides his arm around Steve’s back, and Steve remembers the solid feel of Billy’s body that night. He lets go, allows himself to melt into the embrace; a moment later, they’re swiveling and twirling in tandem, laughing as they dodge piles of clothing on the floor. 

The song is over too soon; Billy’s cheeks are a little pink, his blue eyes sparkling. Steve screws up his courage, reaches forward, and gives him a little peck on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Billy.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Steve can feel something change between them. For a moment, he panics, afraid he’s messed things up. But Billy only reaches up, brushes his face with his fingertips. Threads those same fingertips through Steve’s hair. Pulls him close until their lips meet.

And Steve realizes he’s never kissed Billy Hargrove before.

He wonders why he’s waited so long.

*

The fifth time, it’s _definitely_ Steve’s fault.

It’s Steve’s fault because it’s been two weeks since Billy’s birthday, since they kissed, and Billy’s barely so much as touched him.

It wasn’t like it was even that deep a kiss. You could almost describe it as “chaste”, if you could describe anything Billy Hargrove was involved with as “chaste”. Mouth mostly closed, no tongue.

But since then, since Billy had said “thank you” and pled exhaustion, things have been…normal. Working out. Studying. Getting drunk. Getting drunk and then studying and then going to class on two hours’ sleep because they’re twenty years old and invincible.

Things are normal, and Steve is scrabbling at the walls. What is Billy waiting for? Did Steve screw it up worse than he’d thought? Does Billy just want to forget everything?

To make the whole thing even more surreal, the stream of girls have largely disappeared from Billy’s Instagram. He still posts, but mostly pictures of food, party selfies, the occasional now-playing post with one of the records Steve bought him.

Steve can’t figure it out, but if Billy wants to pretend nothing’s changed, well, Steve’s family wrote the fucking book on that. So he pretends right along with him. Pretends he’s into studying. Pretends he’s into working out. Pretends he’s into his roommate a _normal amount_.

Actually, it turns out that he doesn’t have to pretend to like working out. He feels better afterward. Helps to clear his head, keep the nightmares away. And as much as he dislikes the studying, Billy and their study benders are the reason he’s passing all his classes, so.

So Steve can maybe be forgiven for being a little blindsided when he’s home one afternoon, sitting on the bed in old clothes, when Billy comes in dressed to impress. Tight jeans, cologne, shirt open down to the navel, because this is southern California and it’s ridiculously warm outside in March. And he’s carrying a flower.

A sunflower.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically quiet, as he sits at the foot of the bed. “I’m…I’m not good with relationships. Never really done them before. And I…I don’t think of you as a trophy. I don’t think of anyone as trophies, really—my Instagram isn’t for bragging, it’s for remembering. Because there are so many things in my life I’d rather forget, and I’m afraid if I don’t post about the good times I’ll forget them too.” 

“Billy,” Steve’s voice is quiet.

Billy keeps going, with the increasingly frenzied determination of someone afraid of what will happen if they stop. “And I’ve had so many good times with you, and I started to think about why that is, and I realized it’s because you make them happen. And I wonder if that isn’t what love is. Someone who puts in the effort to make sure you have more good memories together than bad ones. And I’ve never really had that before—”

“Billy,” Steve’s voice is a little louder this time, but it’s still not enough to break through.

“—I don’t know if I can have this, or if I’ll mess it up or whatever, but the point is that I want you. Like, I want to fuck you, I want to see you wearing my come, I want to hear your voice as I split you apart on my fingers or maybe my cock—” Steve finds his mouth suddenly dry— “but also I want to hold you at night. I want to keep hearing those little grumbling noises you make when I wake you up to go work out. I want to find whatever it is that gives you nightmares and crush it. I want you in my life, Steve, and if you need me to ask you out like a seventh-grader, I’ll do it. So.” He clears his throat, holds out the sunflower. “Will you go out with me?”

Steve feels a smile slowly spread across his face. “Billy.”

Billy blinks, eyes seeming to focus on Steve for the first time. “What?”

And Steve’s smile grows wider as he takes the flower, caresses the petals, sets it carefully aside on the bedside table. “Didn’t you remember? It’s laundry day.”

Billy looks down, sees Steve dressed in Billy’s Thrasher shirt, in his old sweats, and a moment later Steve is in his arms, Billy’s weight bearing them both down onto the bed as he plasters their lips together, as their hands roam each other’s bodies, fingertips finding heated skin as their tongues caress, Steve’s moan soft in his throat as his rapidly-filling cock bumps against Billy’s constrained erection.

After a moment, Billy comes up for air, looking down at Steve as if he can’t quite believe he’s there. “Fuck. There’re so many things I want to do to you I’m not even sure where to start.” He runs a hand down Steve’s side, and Steve feels the heat even through the clothes, feels the answering heat rising up to his skin. “Tell me what you want.”

Steve finds his courage. “You said something about splitting me apart?” Smiles a little. “D’you think you can do it while I’m still wearing your clothes?”

Billy’s grin is slow, predatory. “I’ll do you one better than that, sweetheart.” He reaches over to Steve’s bedside table, grabs lube. “Lie back and relax. I’m going to make you feel _amazing_.”

And some part of Steve can’t quite believe this is happening, that he’s about to let _Billy Hargrove_ —practically the school bicycle—fuck him, but here he is, and there’s no denying the way he’s hard in the borrowed sweats. He palms himself a little through the fabric, eyes hot on Billy’s hands as his roommate turns back to him, sees what he’s up to. “Nuh-uh,” Billy says, smile curving his lips again. “Hands over your head. Grip the headboard. If you let go, I’ll stop.”

It’s a threat, and a filthy fucking promise, and Steve can practically feel the flush creeping up his skin as he obeys, raises his arms overhead. Billy reaches over, fingers catching in the waistband, as he tugs the sweats down. Steve isn’t wearing underwear, and he sucks in a breath as his cock springs free, cool air suddenly caressing sensitive skin.

“God,” Billy says, almost reverently. “So fucking beautiful.” He brings his head down, nuzzles the join of Steve’s thigh with his lips, breath hot on Steve’s skin, before pulling away. “Just relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Steve sighs, lets his head fall back onto the pillow, hears the snap of the lube bottle. Feels Billy’s fingers, a moment later, sliding into the space between his legs. The waistband of the sweats is still around Steve’s knees, and the lube leaves an obscene trail of wetness on the insides of his thighs, but Billy is talking again, like he always does when he’s turned on, soft-voiced promises of things to come, even as his fingers find Steve’s hole. 

The sensation is unfamiliar, and Steve sucks in a breath, but Billy just holds there a moment, stroking the sensitive rim. And as his finger begins to press, he nuzzles soft kisses against Steve’s skin—his thighs, his belly, his navel. “God, you’re so tight for me. All for me. I can’t believe it. Just breathe, baby. You know how much I fucking want you.”

Steve breathes. Lets go of the uncertainty, the anxiety, the wondering who Billy would be with right now if it wasn’t for him—because it is him, he’s here, and Billy’s finger is pressing up into him, and it’s unfamiliar but not bad, not with those lips pressing praise into his skin, not with Billy’s breath hot on his skin and Billy’s face brushing against his aching cock and _Jesus fuck_ —

Steve can hear his own ragged cry, can feel Billy’s grin against his belly. “I thought you’d like that, pretty boy.”

“I didn’t—didn’t even know—” Steve’s voice breaks off into a ragged whine as Billy does something with his finger, something that sets off a shock wave of pleasure, expanding through his nerves. “Fuck, I didn’t know—”

“You’re so beautiful like this.” Two fingers now, pressing. “Keep breathing. Let me in.” 

Steve’s eyes are shut tight, his breath ragged, and Billy’s barely touched his cock. Steve bites his lower lip, breath catching in his throat as Billy kisses closer in, until those fingers crook in and down and there it is again, that sensation of expansion, of heat, fire fizzling through every single one of his nerves, and again—

“You’re going to come like this.” Billy’s voice is soft, deep, certain; an inevitability settling deep into Steve’s hindbrain. “You’re going to come, just like this, on nothing but my fingers. You’re going to paint my shirt with your spunk, and you’re going to beg me to do it again, to take you in my mouth, to fuck you, to give you everything I have, and I will—”

“Please—” Steve is gasping, the words and the kisses and the strange overwhelming sensation flooding his body, those wicked fingers eliciting sensations that fill him, whiten his knuckles, push tears from his eyes. “Fuck, please, Billy, let me come—please—”

And even with his eyes closed, Steve can see the grin on Billy’s face, can hear it in his voice. “Just for me, pretty boy. Come for me.”

Another press, and another, and Steve is full, is spilling over, is spilling out, wrecked moans overflowing from his lips, sobs wracking his frame, whole body convulsing as Billy presses in and up, demanding everything Steve has to give. And he gives it, willingly, lets it go, until he feels free and light and empty. Even gives his quiet sobs into Billy’s mouth, after, when he comes up for a kiss.

It’s not Steve’s fault, the way he looks at Billy then, tears clinging to his eyelashes, creating a halo of light around Billy’s golden hair. Anyone would have done the same, in his position. Surrendered to Billy Hargrove’s hands, his care, his pure joy in giving this to Steve.

It’s totally Steve’s fault how Billy looks at him. Like something bright, and beautiful, and completely unexpected, and all the more precious for its rarity.

Like a sunflower, in the middle of a grey winter’s day.


End file.
